


Call Richie For A Good Time

by RestAssured



Series: Like-Minded Men Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Clever John, Desperate Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-reunion, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Addicted To John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:32:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestAssured/pseuds/RestAssured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the call in Like-Minded Men, Sherlock comes up with another way to hear John's voice. (Part of the Like-Minded Men Series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Richie For A Good Time

**Author's Note:**

> So, Sherlock's a bit twisted in this one. I promise to make it alright in the third one.

_“Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it?”_

Mycroft’s voice filled the sparse room in a way that was faint, but could somehow be heard in every corner. Sherlock stared down at the phone on the little glass table at his side—a simple flip pay-as-you-go with the power to call, text, and receive voicemails. It was dead now. But minutes ago, it had brought him an injection of life, straight to his veins.

It had brought him John’s voice.

He was in a hotel room in Copenhagen, and he’d been there for six days. He couldn’t leave the country yet—he had to make his next move in exactly two days, nine hours, and twenty-seven minutes if it was going to go off, and not kill him in the process. Obviously, the wait was killing him anyway.

Lots of things were killing him these days.

 _“It’s done, by the way.”_ Mycroft’s voice interrupted his savoring of the moment once again. _“The website, the number. All of it. Did you get what you wanted?”_

“As if you weren’t listening.” Sherlock grumbled, glowering at the phone.  He had a cigarette between his fingers that he hadn’t lit yet. He was about to when Mycroft called. God… And here he’d thought John would just want to talk. It didn’t take much persuading to get him to talk _that_ way. Now here he was, sprawled out in this boxish leather chair, his legs stretched out and bent just to keep himself grounded. His pants open, his cock flaccid in a condom he would have to flush. His mind, still blown.

John Watson’s voice had never been… so good…

 _“Of course I was.”_ Mycroft’s voice got worse over the line. Funny, that. “ _I don’t know what it is about John Watson that makes you an idiot, but now you’re an idiot on the edge. You need to be more careful—there were at least twelve instances in that conversation that could’ve easily given you away.”_

“Fourteen. I was reckless, I get it.” Sherlock snapped, his teeth clenched in a growl. “It won’t happen again.”

 _“Somehow, I doubt that.”_ Mycroft said evenly, sounding too damn intelligent for his own good. There was a pompousness to his voice that meant he’d been doing something important when Sherlock decided to create his little fantasy. A stolen nine minutes into John Watson’s mind, just so that he could see that he was still alright without him.

He wasn’t alright without him. He’d known he wouldn’t be. Because he wasn’t alright without John either, and it was so very peculiar that no matter how they differed, they almost always matched when it came down to the desperation they had for each other.

Sherlock Holmes had been in love with John Watson since he’d taken a second glance at him. And he knew John had loved him nearly on-sight. And both of these facts were irrelevant because no matter what it was that Sherlock loved at any given moment, it was almost always destroyed whenever he sought to keep it.

Ergo, he could not keep John Watson.

It was a trap, he’d decided, sometime close to jumping off that building. It was fate’s little trap for him. He’d been so good at locking himself away, making himself the most unlikable person in London, keeping every single person he came in contact with at an arm’s length. Fate, that tricky bitch, had to throw him the one specimen of humanity that could not only keep up, but could actually enjoy his company. And she had to make him a he, with war-doctor nerves and a lust for danger as well as normalcy. She had to make him John H. Watson. Because it was a trap.

 _Let’s see how long he lasts when someone touches him_.

He hadn’t lasted long, had he?

 _“Sherlock…”_ Mycroft said, his voice sounding odd and thin through the phone. _“If you’re going to do this again…”_

“Not this, exactly. That would be the end of it, wouldn’t it?” Sherlock said, looking down at his own long fingers, refusing to acknowledge his spent cock. “This was too…”  
  
 _“Close.”_ Mycroft finished for him. _“You were too close, brother mine. He’s thinking of you now. He’ll put it together if you do it again.”_

“Yes.” Sherlock said grimly. Every part of him longed for it. God, he wished…

… He had to have this again. Somehow.

“I need you to do something for me.” He said after a moment of very intense thought. “Do you have a red marker?”

_“I can obtain one.”_

“Good. Obtain it.”

\--

Two weeks later, Sherlock was in Budapest. He was counting seconds. He had a moment in his head, and it wouldn’t be perfect until seven seconds past 2:19 AM, London Time.

He’d just taken a beating and a half. His ribs ached, his eye would not look normal for about ten days. His heart was sore for more than one reason, and he’d just severely incapacitated a man with nothing but a cheese grater and a wooden spoon not two hours ago. But the men that needed to die were dead. And he’d made it on a flight to Hungary.

He felt he deserved to have a moment.

_“… ‘lo?”_

“Well, _hello_ , luv.” Sherlock purred into his newest burn-phone, grating in a South London drawl that he had decided upon two weeks prior. “You sound like ye’ve had a night. You up for a little _fun_?”

“ _Jesus_.” John cursed on the other end, and Sherlock could hear his mattress creak. “ _Not another one—Do you know I’ve been getting shit-faced calls like yours for two weeks?”_

“Awe, but Richie baby—”

 _“I’m not Richie.”_ John growled tiredly, and Sherlock’s cock sat straight up. _“I’m not some twink whore who writes his number all over town. I am not here for your ‘good time’. So fuck off.”_

John hung up.

Sherlock smiled to himself. It was perfect.

\--

Four days later, Sherlock was running. Phone to his ear, dial tone his rhythm as he lunged from a not-so-derelict Budapest factory, searching for cover.

_“Hello?”_

“S’this Richie?” Sherlock asked, his voice slightly wheezier this time. He didn’t need much acting skill to make it that way. He’d just been socked in the chest, and he was on his way out of a building that was about to explode. He had just enough time to hear John’s voice again. Just once. Just in case.

_“No. It’s not Richie. Jesus, are you-”_

“Call Richie for a good time, yeah? You’re _that_ Richie?”

_“I’m not Richie you sick fuck!”_

John hung up. Sherlock dived, a feeling of relief expanding in his chest as he hit the ground knowing he’d at least heard his voice. The building exploded. It couldn’t take _You Sick Fuck_ out of his ears.

\--

_“’Lo?”_

It was 9:17 PM London Time, a week after the explosion in Budapest. Sherlock was naked, laying on a bed in Fier, Albania. He'd had a drink, and now he had to hear that voice. He was smoking a cigarette, a bit careless and not at all alright.

He hadn’t been alright for a while now.

“Is this Richie?” He asked, his voice back in South London. “Richie, like, for a good time?"

 _“No.”_ John growled, his voice low and pissed off and enough to make Sherlock a little warm. _“No, it’s not. Where did you get this number?”_

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and soft and too close to longing. “All I want is a good time, luv. You’re the one to call for that, yeah?”

“ _Where did you get this number?”_

“Do you like having your arse split, Richie?” Sherlock purred, his voice going low and hot. God, he could picture John’s face. All the calls he’s gotten in the last month… They must be ringing in his ears. Proper John Watson. And yet _he’d_ called his naughty little line, demanding such _nasty_ things… “I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you’re a right whore for it. Well, I could take you so hard—”

_“—They’ll hear it in Hell, I know. I’ve heard it.”_

Sherlock’s lips curled a little. He chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve had your share of good times, then?”

There was silence. Then, a chuckle. _“You could say I’ve been having fun.”_

Something made Sherlock tense. Something in the tone of John’s voice. Like… Like he had something on him. Sherlock went silent, listening for it in John’s breath, his movements. But there was nothing but air for a good four seconds.

_“You know what else I’ve heard? I’ve heard that you could suck my brain out through my cock and make me your boot-licking bitch. I sincerely doubt the latter, but the former... well. Who would pass that up?"_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I know I wouldn't."

_"No, you wouldn't. You're a bit lonely, aren't you? Calling numbers and whispering your sick fantasies and getting off on how pissed off I sound, right? You love it. You want me looking for you, you want me to punish you."_

Sherlock shuddered.  _God..._  

He could barely breathe. The only thing left in his head was the image of John Watson, coming for him, getting ready to make him pay. It was making him desperately hard, and he bit his lower lip for a moment, trying to calm down. 

 _"That's it, isn't it? You want me to come get you, slam you down, rip you apart until you're screaming. You want me so angry, I'll make **you** my cum-sucking slut, I'll make  **you** my boot-licking bitch. That's what this is._ _"_

Sherlock couldn't breathe.

Slowly, he took a drag of his cigarette. His mind was turning. He had to focus, but he couldn't _see_ anything but John. He whispered into the receiver, hungry for more of that talk. “Aren’t you feisty?”

There was a chuckle. _“Only when you fuck with me.”_

“That’s what the ad was for, in’nit?”

_“You tell me.”_

“Well, how would I know?”

_“You wrote it.”_

Sherlock stilled. He pulled the cigarette from his lips.

 _“You thought you were clever.”_ John’s voice was low and dark and, _God,_ there’s nothing like it. _“It’s alright. I’ve found that people who think they’re clever underestimate common sense. I asked the other callers. And kept asking. Finally one of them told me where your little love-note was. Now, the question is, what was my phone number doing scrawled on a sign post in an abandoned tube station, and how would someone calling from a 355 country code know it was there? Particularly since I went out there and etched it out five days ago?”_

John Watson was not an idiot.

Sherlock slid his cigarette between his lips again, his fingers shaking. He felt caught and pleased and more turned on than he’d been that night three weeks and four days ago, when he’d heard that voice and felt the center of his life’s focus turn inside out, from _Get Through This And Get Home To John_ to  _Screw Everything, Get To John, There's Nothing Without Him._

 _“So I’m going to make an educated guess.”_ John continued, his voice dropping into a growl. _“You wrote that message. You wrote that message because you thought you were clever, and you wanted to find a way to hear my voice. That means one of two things: One, you don’t know me, and you get sick thrills out of doin’ this sort of thing, or two, you’re somebody I know.”_

Sherlock’s breath caught. His body tensed. He closed his eyes, waiting for the bullet that would be his name.

“ _Answer me.”_ John’s voice was no longer playing around. It was no longer amused, or annoyed, and he was no longer the John Watson who sputtered and fiddled with the lint on his jumper when he didn’t know what to say. He was the John Watson who could shoot to kill. “ _If this is some… some stupid practical joke, if this is a game, tell me now.”_

Sherlock’s heart went to his throat, and he exhaled the smoke, trying to figure out when he’d ever allowed it to do such things.

He had to let go. For now.

“Yeah.” He said, trying on a laugh for good measure. But it was hollow, unconvincing, and he knew already that he’d be given away if he didn’t disappear right then and there. “It was funny for a while, wasn’t it?”

He hung up, his body lurching with the pressure on that button.

And then he dialed Mycroft.

_“Yes?”_

“Shut it down. Shut the Watson game down.”

_“Four minutes.”_

He hung up again, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t realize how badly he wanted to be caught until this very second. Just to hear John’s voice curse his name.

\--

In London, several homeless individuals were given large stacks of cash in exchange for the return of some government issue mobiles. Mycroft Holmes erased John Watson’s phone records for the last month, then popped an aspirin.

Sometimes he wished his brother had never met John Watson. These days, he thanked God he had.

John Watson was all that was keeping him fighting. And when Sherlock fights, Sherlock wins.


End file.
